The Magnifying Glass and Stethoscope
by Seulement Alors
Summary: A series of one-shots. Stories from 221 B Baker Street. Exploring the relationship between a famous detective and a kind-hearted doctor through the cases and trouble they find themselves in.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own the brilliant Sherlock Holmes, the wonderful John Watson or any other characters. I will play with them for a bit, but always return them as found.

This set of drabbles is used to keep me writing, so hopefully, I never reach that dreaded moment of writers block while working on other stories. I tend to flow towards more of the hurt Watson stories. I like seeing the humanity in Holmes; not just a brain without a heart. :D

Reviews/positive feedback/pointers/constructive criticism is all lovely and will be cherished.

Without further ado, enjoy.

* * *

Gladstone

Gladstone was a tiny puppy; a large head on a very small body. When Holmes had first laid eyes on the small dog, he thought the unfavourable creature was almost comical, except the dog drooled like a leaky faucet and always managed to keep underfoot. More than once he had found himself chasing the dog after a beaker of chemicals had managed to get in his mouth. The dog would run from him, tongue swinging, stout legs carrying him away from the raving detective. Holmes would give chase, arms out stretched, long legs trying to keep up with the quick dog.

_'How could a dog with that short of legs move so fast?_'

Holmes skid to a halt when the dog took to safety behind a pair of clad legs. He slowly raised his eyes to the disappointed gaze of his fellow lodger of only three short months.

"Holmes, would you please leave my poor dog alone?"

"Watson, would you please see to having that dog leashed to the ottoman or to something where he would no longer be a hazard to my experiments, which I will remind you, are of the utmost importance."

"You are blaming a pup for your failed experiments. Does your depravity know no bounds?"

"No. My experiments would be a raving succsess if I didn't constantly need to redo three weeks worth of preparation for a single test that could possibly change the way the world understands sound travel."

"Indeed," the Doctor had produced a leash and was attaching it to the dog's collar, "why don't you take a moment from your 'test' and come to the park with Gladstone and I, and get out of the flat for a while."

"But with the dog gone I could finally finish my experiment and record my results."

"Holmes, you haven't been out of the flat in days, it's high time you got out and saw a little sunlight." There was some rustling behind Watson, and Holmes could smell Mrs. Hudson's perfume.

"The Doctor is right you know, you are looking a little peaky," Mrs. Hudson walked over towards the men, brandishing some sort of vegetable she would no doubt try and feed to her lodgers that night, " and women like a little colour in their men."

"Is that right Nanny?"

"Go with the Doctor Mr. Holmes, I would rather enjoy an afternoon to myself without having to clean up some fire or explosion of sorts."

"Come Holmes, Gladstone is already to leave, we're just awaiting you."

"Nanny?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes,"

"If I do not come back, please see to it that my room is cleaned and my belongings shipped to my brother's estate."

"Of course."

"And Nanny..."

Mrs. Hudson bestowed him with a suspisious eye, "yes..."

"Do be careful of the adder in my closet, he's managed to escape the sealed box twice now," he said as he grabbed his overcoat and placed a hat atop his head," and I would detest to have you wake up with a poisionous snake slithering in your night cap."

* * *

"It is lovely out here, is it not Holmes?"

"Yes, I suppose it is, other than the cold."

The park had a long and winding pathway, which led to one of the many creeks that flowed from the Thames. February was chilly, and the temperature had dropped enough for the creek to freeze over and the blades of grass to crisp and sparkle with frost. It was a picturesque sight, and Watson was soaking it up.

"You actually believe in the romantic drivel of snow capped mountains and bubbling brooks?"

Watson looked at him in curiosity, "yes, why should I not?"

"I just thought that as a military man, you would see the world through eyes of black and white."

"Perhaps it is because I am a military man that I do not see the world through black and white," he said with mild reproach, "the world is full of colour, and nothing could compare to the joys of beauty."

"You've been scribbling in that notebook of yours again."

Watson's laugh filled the quiet park, followed by a sharp, "Gladstone, come!"

The dog had wandered over to the frozen creek, and was standing on the thin ice. "Gladstone, come here!" Watson started making his way over to the dog, his cane tapping on the ground. Holmes rolled his eyes and followed.

"I knew that dog was nothing but trouble from the moment I saw his wrinkly face."

Watson kept moving towards the dog, stopping at the edge of the creek. "Gladstone, come." He tapped his fingers on his thighs and used his authoritative voice that Holmes was sure he used in the war. It was a very commanding voice; warm and inviting but held power and knowledge, and it even had Holmes listening to what the Doctor had to say. But the bull was not listening. Which was strange in itself because the dog listened to no one but Watson. Then the sound reached the two men standing at the creek edge. The crack of the ice giving away beneath the dog.

Watson gave the dog one more try, "Gladstone, come." The tiny dog turned his head towards his owner, his brown eyes huge and troubled.

It was frightened, Holmes deduced.

The sound of Watson's cane clattering to the ground broke him of his reverie.

"Watson, what in the Devil's name do you think you are going to do?"

"I'm going to get my dog."

"The ice isn't thick enough for the dog to stand on, do you think it's thick enough for a grown man?" Regardless of the man having an incredibley emaciated frame from which the war had left him with. Even Mrs. Hudson's excellent cooking wasn't enough to shake the souvenir the war had given him.

The look Watson had sent him could have made a weaker man turn on his heel and leave the man alone in a heart beat, but Holmes wasn't a weak man.

"What do you propose then, I'm not leaving without him and we're running out of time."

For once in his life, Holmes couldn't think of anything, "I'm not sure."

Huffing, Watson lowered himself and spread out as large as he could. "I'm sure if I only stay at the edge I will be fine, I just need him to move closer...come Gladstone, come."

The dog gave Watson a pleading look and took a tentative step forward.

The ice gave way beneath the dog, and Gladstone gave a terrified yelp. Watson slid himself forward until his hands wrapped around the little dog. The ice under him broke and he felt himself slip into the icy creek. Just as his face went under the water a hand snagged the back of his overcoat and heaved him back towards the shore. His face broke the surface of the water and he saw Holmes lying in the spot he had just been in, holding the collar of the coat.

Standing and shivering, Watson looked down to the little, soaked ball of fur clutched tightly to his chest.

"My Lord, for a little dog, he does cause a lot of trouble doesn't he?"

Teeth chattering Watson replied, "is sure seem that way."

Suddenly an overcoat, that wasn't dripping, was placed over his shoulders and a scarf that wasn't his, fastened around his neck, "what will Mrs. Hudson say when we arrive back home," the detective said as he steered Watson out of the park and hailed a hansom and used his best woman's voice, "you cause all that trouble when you're in the flat and when you go out with the good Doctor you let him swim in a creek in the winter. You should be a more considerate friend."

Watson coughed, which Holmes reasoned, was supposed to be a chuckle under normal circumstance.

"Yes, well, you could have volunteered to venture out and grab the dog," Watson said sitting back in the leather cushions of the wagon, relaxing his leg.

"I was preoccupied fishing for a grown man."

Watson smiled and closed his eyes, then jerked them open again, "my cane!"

Holmes smiled and handed it to the Doctor, "I picked it up on the way out of the park."

"Thank you, dear Holmes."

Something warm bubbled in Holmes chest and he looked back at his resting companion. He was still shivering, but he looked less haggard now, with Holmes' coat wrapped around his thin shoulders. Watson was still holding the little dog to his chest, stroking his head. The warmth in his chest grew a little, and he was confused as to why he didn't understand why he felt so comfortable around this decorated army veteran.

The hansom came to a stop and Holmes opened the carriage door, giving the driver his fair, and helping the doctor to the door. Said door swung open and a concerned and mildly agitated Mrs. Hudson stood staring at Holmes with a silent fury, and the Doctor with a maternal look as she ushered Watson inside. "What have you done now Mr. Holmes?"

"I didn't do a thing!"

"He's being honest," whispered Watson. Holmes gave the man a grateful look and started for his room, "I'm going to change into something warm and preferably dry."

"I'll start the fire, Doctor," Mrs. Hudson said as she relieved him of his overcoat and his soaking hat, "would you like me to run a hot bath?"

"I'm just going to change, thank you Mrs. Hudson."

She nodded and left to light the fire.

* * *

When Holmes came back downstairs he saw Watson sitting on the settee. "Feeling better then?"

"Much," Watson said.

Holmes saw that the doctor was holding the dog again. "He's a little troublemaker isn't he?"

"Yes, he does manage to attract trouble, like someone else I know."

Holmes looked away, hiding the small smile that creeped across his face, "I know not of whom you speak."

"I'm sure you don't."

Holmes felt that queer feeling in his chest again. That warmth that made him feel completely comfortable and wanted. A feeling he hadn't felt with anyone else but this individual. A feeling he didn't understand, and as he looked across the parlor at the man who risked his own safety for the little, drooling fur ball that was asleep held securely to his chest, Holmes realized,

he didn't mind not understanding.

END

* * *

That's my first drabble for this section.

They will vary in length. Shorter, perhaps longer.

I hope to hear from you guys. I love opinions.

Seulment Alors


	2. Thumb I

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes, John Watson or any other wonderful characters.

* * *

_Thumb I_

When he awoke, it was to the breeze and light shining from the broken window. Six days. He'd been here, hanging from the ceiling in some abandoned house.

His hands were handcuffed to the roof with old iron derbies with a length of chain. The chain wasn't long enough for him to reach the floor, and was left suspened above; simply swinging. His wounded shoulder had hurt the first two days; a still healing wound being stretched and manipulated in ways that a normally functioning shoulder shouldn't. After the two days, he couldn't feel anything in his left arm.

He was tired, so tired. And thirsty.

He managed to drink a little everyday from the leaks in the roof and the dribbling, melting snow. It was still December, and the little snow that had accumulated on the roof was dripping through the shoddy and water ruined wood. If he tilted his head back far enough, some of the water would drip into his mouth.

He was cold.

They had taken everything but his white shirt, but it was in such a state now that it felt as if his chest and torso were exposed, and his pants.

The people who had taken him had left him on the second day. They had asked questions about how much Holmes and himself knew about their smuggling, how much evidence they had, how could they prove it and was Scotland Yard involved? He hadn't told them anything, and two days of being beat and questioned, they had decided that he was a lost cause and left him to die.

Except Watson hadn't died. He simply hung there, for six days, drinking melting snow and trying to break free of the derbies to make his way back home. He just wanted to sleep on his bed. Even the settee would be lovely at this point. Well, really the tiger skin rug on the floor in Holmes' room would be fantastic. As long as he was horizontal.

He moved his hands again. The searing pain of the abused flesh was common place and easily ignored, but his hands still wouldn't fit through the gap. If only he could remove his thumb, then the rest of his hand would fit through the derbies.

His whole body jerked violently. That was the solution! Why hadn't he thought of it sooner? All he needed to do was remove the thumb of both his hands and the rest would slide through. Simply breaking the thumb in the right spot would allow the bone to shift and slide against his plam. It would work and breaking them would be easy enough.

Why hadn't he thought of this four days ago?

Slowly he moved his right hand over to his left as much as the cuffs would allow, and he grasped his thumb. Knowing exactly where the joint was, being a doctor, all he had to do was jerk it forward and over.

And so he did. With a jerk and a strong twist, his thumb snapped. The sound echoed off the surrounding walls and it made him feel nauesated. He couldn't feel any pain, thankfully, because of the all consuming numbness in his arms. The wrist then slipped through the cuff and he swung forward with the momentum. Quickly before he lost the will, he did the same to his right hand. A jerk and a twist and the bone was broken, and the hand slipped through the other cuff.

He dropped to his feet, and the room spun in lazy circles; colours mixing together in queasy yellows and browns.

He opened his eyes, when had he closed them? He found the room still, and in proper coloured form.

He staggered his way over to the door, and found it unlocked. They had left him to die, and hadn't bothered locking the doors. Idiots.

As he swayed and placed a hand on the doorway to steady himself, he looked at the stairway that led to the landing, then to outside. All he had to do was make it down a flight of stairs, outside and into a hansom.

He felt exhausted just thinking about it.

He pushed off of the doorway and limped towards the stairs.

Eventually, he made it down the stairs. Tears in his eyes, as the blood in his body started to recirculated. Everything was pin, needles, and flashes of agony through his back and chest.

And has he left bloody footprints in his wake, he kept thinking, _'that's all I have to do, and I'll be home.'_

* * *

_Please read and reveiw. Thoughts, lovely ideas, or **constructive** critisism would all be appreciated._


	3. Thumb II

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes, John Watson or any other wonderful characters.

* * *

_Thumb II_

He had torn up the city for six days.

He had lifted up every red bricked building, searching it from top to bottom, every abandoned alley way and every corner of the city.

Eleven days ago he had discovered the leading faces of a smuggling ring in London. The contraband had started small, but as the ring grew in size as did the contraband quality. It had started with robbing worthy nobleman's' homes and taking valuables. Simple enough to catch, something he had initially thought Lestrade could accomplish on his own, but the loss of an innocent life, a young woman who had been at the wrong place at the wrong time, had been the catalyst, and Holmes had quickly uncovered enough information to put each one of the smugglers behind bars, and some even as far as the noose. As for the young woman, her body had never been recovered. It was then a possibility that she was still alive.

Unlikely.

Six days ago he and the accompanying Scotland Yard had accosted all but three of the contraband artists.

He had reached his flat at Baker Street that afternoon, and was welcomed by his landlady questioning the whereabouts of the good doctor.

Holmes had though him to be at home.

He wasn't, and after six days of searching, he was't in any part of London that Holmes knew.

Lestrade had all available men searching for Watson as well. No one could produce results. Holmes had used all his contacts, reputable or not. He even sent a word out to his brother, and Mycroft had people searching as well.

"That is not possible!"

"Be reasonable Holmes!"

"There was no way, with the given time frame, that they could have smuggled him out of the country."

"How can you be so sure?" Lestrade whipped his hat off, and wiped his brow. When he had fist met the doctor, he had thought that the poor man was not going to be able to last four days with the consulting detective. The man had seemed so quiet and world weary, but eight months later Lestrade had been given a new perspective on the Doctor. The man was intelligent, and not in all things medicinal. He was a crack shot, with a temper shorter than the Holmes across from him, but polite, a rare occurrence. His military training had yet to rub off, if it ever would, and the man was sharp and easily took a commanding role. Lestrade had found it easy to like the other man, and not only was he a good man himself, but he had somehow managed to create a human being out of the Sherlock Holmes Lestrade was used to working with.

"From he last moment he was seen which was six days and eight hours ago, there was no way three men could leave the country with another man, on any mode of transportation to..."

"It is very plausible that the men had had a ship ready, and six days is a very long ti...Holmes?"

The man wasn't focused on him anymore, but something behind him. Turning, Lestrade could feel the colour drain from his face. Standing, albeit leaning, on the door frame was the man that had disappeared for six days. They had spent how many hours searching for this man, how many men did Lestrade out searching and he just walks into Baker Street.

"Watson..."

Holmes started moving forwards, hands outstretched, as if the man were an aspiration.

"Doctor, where have you been?"

The man's eyes focused on Lestrade's face, then back to Holmes', who was still moving across the sitting room to reach him. From his position Lestrade could see the mann's knees were shaking, and his eyes were bright and glazed. _'Fever.'_

The man shut his eyes, as if in concentration, and let out an exhausted sigh.

Then he collapsed.

Holmes darted forward, and Lestrade was close behind.

"Watson!" He grabbed the doctor as he fell, clutching him to his chest.

Lestrade leaned down, close to the comatose man, and checked his pulse. Thready and weak, but present and not fading.

"Can you call for a doctor?"

Lestrade was already moving, not wanting to leave the two men alone, but this was beyond anything that he was capable of tending to.

Holmes' eyes never strayed from the veteran in his arms, cradled in his lap.

"What have you gotten yourself into, old fellow?"

His calculating gaze swept over the man.

_"Bleeding from the head; old wound. Sunken eyes and gaunt face; lack of nutrition. Radiating heat; fever, possibly from infection."_

"Watson, where are you hurt?"

He gently shook the man, and Watson's gaze finally settled on him, "where did they hurt you?"

"M...m...bac...khh" He shivered violently, and Holmes cursed.

"I'll be right back old chap." Placing the man on the floor gently, Holmes scrabbled to his feet and rushed to the study, grabbing the duvet from the settee.

Rushing back, he skid to a halt beside the injured man.

"Where did they keep you?" He asked as he wrapped the man in the duvet, wiping the sweaty brow. _'Where is Lestrade with that Doctor?'_

"Hou...near...he...tir..ed"

"I know you're tired, but I must ask you to stay awake."

Watson shivered and Holmes pulled the duvet closer around his flatmate then pulled his flatmate closer to him.

Watson could hear Holmes talking. He tried hard to listen to what he was saying, because Holmes said a lot of important things, but he could not concentrate.

"Watson, I need you to stay awake."

_'He sounds scared'_, Watson thought. The black ring growing around the edges of his vision was making it harder to concentrate. He was feeling terrible. His back throbbed and his hands hurt; he just wanted to sleep.

There were more voices now. He recognized a couple of them, some of them were new. He could pick out Holmes' amongst them. Perhaps that was because he could feel the rumble through the man's chest whenever he spoke.

The ring was growing, and his will power was fading.

"Watson, I need you to stay awake."

His body was growing extraordinarily heavy, too heavy. The air was hot and thick, it was too hard to grab a breath.

"Watson, please, you need to remain awake."

His body grew lax. It felt like his bones had turned to dough. Like the dough Mrs. Hudson made when she was making homemade bread.

"John, please."

He made one last gallant effort to open his eyes. He saw Holmes looking at him. Lestrade and a man he did not know were in the background staring at him as well. He focused on Holmes' again. He looked terrified. Why would Holmes' look terrified?

"John, I need you to..."

He didn't hear all of Holmes' demand, for the ring in his vision grew, and the world started spinning. He wanted to ask Holmes what he had wanted, but found himself unable to. The darkness surrounding him was winning.

Then it won.

* * *

When he awoke, it was to darkness, and for a moment he panicked. He was back in the house, strapped to the roof, left for dead, and no one was looking for him. But this time there was a voice. Those men were back!

"Watson! Calm down!"

They never called him Watson before.

He opened his eyes to see a very concerned Holmes staring back at him.

He looked about the room. It was his room, and he was in his bed. He looked at Holmes, but the man had something in his hands and was trying to give it to Watson.

"Drink."

The cool water was a small blessing. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was. He finished two glasses before Holmes, grabbed a pillow to prop him up and put the glass away.

The awkward silence that followed was so Holmes' that Watson chuckled.

His head shot up, and his eyes sparkled with delight and curiosity.

"It's good to see you Holmes."

Holmes' smile was a treasure, "It is good to see you my dear."

* * *

_There. Done that mini series._

_I will try and keep the updates a little less sporadic, but I cannot promise anything._

_Please read and review. Reviews are always wanted and appreciated._


	4. Fire

I don't own the brilliant Sherlock Holmes, the wonderful John Watson or any other characters. I will play with them for a bit, but always return them as found.

Reviews/positive feedback/pointers/constructive criticism is lovely and will be cherished.

Without further ado, enjoy.

* * *

Fire

He could smell it. It was streaming from the windows and the open doors of the house. It was all encompassing. It was impossible to breathe. The smoke worked its way into your lungs, and stayed, stealing all the space where oxygen would reside. It was overwhelming.

He could hear it. He could hear the neighbours screaming as flames licked at their heels, and started swallowing their belongings. He could hear the roar of the inferno as it worked its ugly head into his home. It was starving; he could hear the hunger of the mighty beast as it worked its way through their kitchen, slowly crawling up the stairs to their rooms.

He could see it. He could see the living hell as it crept its head into the open space at the top of their stairwell. He could see himself running to grab his flat mate and his flat mate's stupid dog. He could see the beast having no concern for the damage it was conflicting on his home and his belongings. He could see the indifference in the flames. The pure indifference was destruction.

He could taste it. It was close enough now that the heat produced its own taste. It tasted like metal. But he could only really taste the fear that was coming up through his throat, choking him. Silencing him. He could only taste the bitter air as he screamed for the man to get out.

He could feel it. Maybe he should have acted faster, but now the flames were close enough to them that he could feel them on his skin, licking and tasting him, just like it had everything else in his home. He could feel the heat on his face, and everywhere else. It was hot. Too hot. It felt like Hell.

Then he could feel someone shoving him through the house. That same someone was yelling at someone else as well. Then something was shoved in his arms. He could feel a small body, with little hairs everywhere. Furry. Very different from the hellish hot he was just in. He was shoved again, but this time there was no smoke in his face, only fresh air. Clean air and he gulped it back greedily.

Someone new was in his face yelling. Shorter, stouter and with a face full of anxiety. He must have not understood because the new man grabbed his shoulders and shook. He could feel his body moving with the deceptively strong body in front of him.

"Holmes!"

Rapidly, like surfacing from a lake too fast, everything sped up around him. He blinked and looked at the inspector in front of him.

"Lestrade."

"Where are Watson and Mrs. Hudson?"

Slowly, too slowly, the pieces of the puzzle fit together. The man shoving him inside was Watson, without a doubt. Looking down, he realized the furry little body he was holding was Gladstone.

"He went back into the house for her."

"The building is going to collapse!"

Holmes threw the dog at the inspector and made an aborted attempt at returning to the doomed building. He was stopped however by two burly officers.

"No, let me through!"

"Sir, it won't remain standing much longer!"

As if on cue, the house fell. Everything fell. His home. His housekeeper. His friend.

Too shocked to yell, Holmes stood there and watched as the smoldering remains burned on, as if to remind him of failure and its triumph.

A hand rested on his shoulder.

Lestrade stood behind him, offering what little comfort he could.

"I'm sorry Holmes. If we had been a little faster…"

"Lestrade!"

Head snapping, Lestrade looked to the man yelling. Behind him was a soot covered Mrs. Hudson and Watson, looking worse for wear.

Wrenching the little dog from the inspector's arms, Holmes ran over to the pair, climbing over some of the rumble, to make his way to the back of the house. Or what was left of the front.

Mrs. Hudson, looked a little haggard, but fine. She would blame Holmes for the fire, until she realized that it wasn't him that started it.

Watson was coughing, hard hacks that jarred his slight frame. A body with little reserves shouldn't have been subjected to that kind of abuse. Then again, nobody should have.

The coughing abated and a weary head looked up and Holmes was face to face with blue eyes, blue eyes that were bloodshot, and teary, but held a silent strength that Holmes knew he could never possess.

"Good Lord, that was hot."

And the spell was broken. It was if the fire hadn't happened, and everything had returned to normal.

"Yes, hot fire, a nuisance if I ever saw one."

The man chuckled and coughed, acting as if this was to be a normal occurrence. Maybe it was.

There was a pause, calm and gentle.

"What in the world did you do this time Mr. Holmes?"

* * *

I apologize for the long wait.

Please read and review. Reviews make writing more rewarding.

Seulment Alors


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